The Woman
by Lady Moonstone
Summary: this is a story about how Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler met for the second time and began their love affair.
1. Chapter 1

_I wanted to explore how Holmes and Irene actually began their affair. We all know that she 'bested' Sherlock Holmes in the original story entitled "A Scandal in Bohemia" and that was their first meeting. But how did they meet the second time, and how did that antagonistic relationship turn into love? Well, this is my little take on it, and it takes place long before the Blackwood case. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it._

**The Woman**

**Chapter One**

Sherlock Holmes' first introduction to Irene Adler was exactly as that of so many others - he read about her in the newspaper. She was quite renowned as an actress, as well as for her extraordinarily pure soprano voice. His interest in her went no further than hoping that someday she might appear in London and that he and Watson would be fortunate enough to attend one of her performances.

Eventually Holmes had the opportunity to discover The Woman in person. In a tale which Watson had entitled "A Scandal in Bohemia," the detective was hired by Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein and the hereditary King of Bohemia, to retrieve an incriminating photograph taken of himself with Miss Adler, preferably to be accomplished before the King's upcoming nuptials. Holmes was not able to retrieve said photo, for Irene Adler had proven herself far more resourceful than he had anticipated. Put bluntly, she out-smarted him. From this remarkable event, Holmes learned never to underestimated this particular woman's cunning. As a reminder, all he had asked in payment for his trouble was another photograph which Wilhelm von Ormstein had in his possession - a portrait of Irene Adler alone.

Over time, in more unsavory newspaper articles, Holmes discovered that loving and leaving men was in actuality The Woman's habit. Of note were a couple of marriages to wealthy bachelors followed almost immediately by divorces, with the abandoned husbands left the poorer for their matrimonial vows. Even more unsavory articles hinted at _affaires de cœur_ with married men. Rumor implied that these besotted fools were left even more impoverished than Miss Adler's former husbands. Blackmail to keep temperamental wives in ignorance was the reason most often cited for their sudden loss of income.

That, Holmes felt, was entirely The Woman's business, and if the men were deluded enough to fall for her deceptive charms then they deserved their punishment.

As time passed, however, he began to notice a peculiar pattern emerging. When with a touring company, Miss Adler was oftentimes located in the same city where a wealthy woman found herself relieved of some expensive piece of jewelry, or some wealthy gentleman screamed thievery because his bank account had been unexpectedly emptied.

Curiouser and curiouser.

For no reason other than his own amusement, Sherlock Holmes began keeping a record of unusual robberies coinciding with Miss Adler's professional appearances in those same cities. He clipped the articles from the newspapers and kept them in a bundle. Certainly she could not be guilty of all these crimes, yet the coincidence was undeniable, and delightfully intriguing.

When he spotted her leaving the Grand Hotel one day, he couldn't help but follow her. She was dressed in an emerald-colored gown trimmed in gold, the bustle layered in emerald and gold ruffles, and at a jaunty angle atop her chestnut curls sat a green hat adorned with golden feathers, long and curving. She was just as lovely as he remembered her from their past acquaintance.

Curiosity set him on her trail. He wondered what nefarious business she might be pursuing here, in London. Naturally his interest had nothing to do with the fact that she had bested him once before. Nor did it have anything to do with her beauty and charm. Of course not for he, Sherlock Holmes, was immune to the base, primal reactions from which other men suffered.

After walking some distance from the hotel as if to obscure her path, she hailed a cab, so Holmes also hailed a cab. She traveled to the banking district. Holmes followed her there. When she exited the cab and entered a quaint-looking corner pub, Holmes followed her inside, keeping to the shadows, and found a seat in a far corner from which to observe her activities.

She sat for a time in quiet solitude, pretending to sip from a glass of dark red wine. It was a ruse - the level of wine in the glass never ebbed. She was clearly waiting for someone to join her, a man no doubt, and did not want her faculties diminished by alcohol. Holmes was proven right when a middle-aged gentleman dressed in an expensive suit approached her table, bowed over her hand, and then seated himself beside her.

He wished he could overhear their conversation, but to come that close to their table would be to reveal himself. So he remained in that far corner, concealed in the shadows, sipping at his own wine, and contented himself with watching.

After only a few moments, Adler removed from her purse a package no bigger than her hand might be if fisted. The man removed an envelope from his coat. An exchange was made and smiling graciously, The Woman bid the man farewell and left. Holmes followed her back to the Grand.

The next day when she exited the Grand Hotel, she was dressed all in burgundy and silver. Seeing her, Holmes sighed wistfully before he could stop himself. His brilliant mind briefly considered the sigh, an automatic reaction to her beauty which frankly surprised him. When she paused in the noonday sun, shining like an ornament, he almost sighed again. Had he been prone to such fancies, which he was not of course, he might have named her a vision of loveliness. Thankfully, he knew such romantic notions never crossed his mind.

Again she walked some distance away from the Grand before hailing a cab. Again, Holmes also hailed a cab. He followed her to a distinctly disagreeable section of London near the docks. When she disembarked her cab, he left his as well. He followed her, frowning in consternation as this lady of obvious wealth and breeding wound her way fearlessly down dark dirty alleys and through clearly dangerous locales even the great Sherlock Holmes might hesitate to enter without Dr. Watson guarding his back. She was fearless. He was intrigued, more so than ever.

Holmes knew it was a mistake when she entered what he knew to be a blind alley. Even as he watched, three men moved in behind her, blocking her exit. When the first accosted her, grabbing roughly at her wrist, Holmes jumped into the fray before he had fully considered the situation.

With a shouted, "Miss Adler, run!" Holmes engaged the first man and took him down before the brute even knew what was happening. Without pause he whirled and had attacked the second and third together when a blow to the back of his head blacked out his vision and sent him spinning into darkness. He felt the impact as he hit the alley floor. After that - nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Woman**

**Chapter Two**

Consciousness was elusive. In the blackness, Holmes first became aware of the scent of a familiar Parisian perfume. Then, of the fact that he lay upon a soft mattress and not the hard ground of that filthy alley near the docks. At that point it would have been so easy to slip back into the darkness, but the situation required further investigation. When Holmes at last cracked his eyes open, the world spun so badly that he promptly shut them again. He heard a soft moan, and in some part of his damaged skull he understood that the moan had issued from his own mouth. He vowed to not let it happen again.

With herculean effort, he forced his eyes to open and stay open. He blinked to help clear his vision. As the blur faded, he made out someone dressed all in burgundy and silver. Recognition came almost as an afterthought, and with it he shot upright in the bed. And immediately regretted it.

Damned moans.

With very little effort, a small hand pushed him back down again. The Woman's expression was gentle, almost indulgent.

"Please don't get up yet, Mr. Holmes. You received quite a hard blow to the back of your head. You need a little more time to recover before you try to exert yourself."

Head back on soft pillow, Holmes gazed up at her. "You escaped after all," he murmured.

"Yes." Irene Adler smiled as if at a private joke. She gave a tiny, demure shrug. "Somehow I won free of the ugly mess." She waved her hand to indicate their surroundings, a delicate gesture. "I brought you here."

"Here?"

"To my room in the Grand Hotel. I hope you don't mind. I felt I owed it to you after your bravery in rescuing me."

His mind was moving far too slowly, possibly he was concussed. Or possibly it was that her perfume was filling his head. It certainly wasn't her nearness, or the fact that she was sitting on the edge of the bed upon which he himself lay. "But how ... I mean ...?"

"How did I move you here?"

Holmes nodded, regretted it instantly and croaked, "Yes."

"Oh, I am a _terrible_ nurse," Irene admonished herself. She reached for a nearby glass of water, which she brought to Holmes' lips. "Here. Drink." When he had taken a few sips, she replaced the glass. "There. Is that better?"

He nodded, regretted it again, then said, "Not by yourself?"

"What?"

"You didn't bring me here alone."

"Oh, no, of course not!" Her smile was intoxicating. "I hired a cab and had my friends carry you to it."

"Your friends?" That didn't make sense. She had been alone in the alley, save for those thugs. Then he realized what she meant. He would have kicked himself had he the strength.

"Well, not really friends," she chided gently, confirming his supposition. "More like acquaintances. Business associates. You know, the men you attacked? Oh," Irene added, smiling, "you look absolutely delicious when you're not being so smug and intellectually superior."

She wet a rag in a bowl of cold water, wrung it out, and went on, "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I was meeting those men. You had been following me so assiduously, I'd assumed you knew that. Or, at least I assumed so until you attacked them in my defense." She began bathing his face with the damp towel. It felt good. The coolness helped to clear his mind. "I still think it was very brave of you. Unnecessary, of course, but brave nonetheless."

"And the blow to my head? I had felled one man and engaged the other two." He stared into Irene Adler's green eyes, having already deduced the answer.

"I am sorry about that," she replied, "but I couldn't let you interrupt our transaction. You understand."

"Of course," he murmured.

She smiled coyly, bathing his face, his neck. His chest, where she had opened his shirt. "It's not often I find a gentleman coming to my defense."

"I find that hard to believe, Miss Adler."

"Flattery, Mr. Holmes?"

"On the contrary. Fact. Your record proves that men are more than willing to come to your side at the least provocation."

She was completely unperturbed by his allusion to her romantic history. "Flattery indeed then. The great Sherlock Holmes has been examining my innermost secrets."

The strangest sensation of warmth suffused Holmes' face. Under the circumstances, there was nothing he could do to hide it.

The Woman noticed. Her face took on a sudden expression of gentle concern. "Oh," she said worried. "Your lip is cut."

"It's nothing." In truth, he hadn't even noticed. Accustomed to worse pains in the fighting pits, such a small wound was insignificant.

Irene blotted his lip with the cool damp cloth. So careful was she, he barely felt the contact. Eyes on her delicate chore, she said, "When I was a little girl, my mother always kissed away the pain of my scrapes and scratches."

"That's ridiculous," Holmes scoffed.

"Oh no, it works. Every time. Did your mother never kiss yours?"

"Never."

"I am sorry."

"Nonsense. A kiss is entirely incapable of curing a wound."

"Oh. Have you tested it out scientifically then?"

"Of course not."

"Well," she smiled, her eyes alight with mischief, "shall we try it out then?" And before Holmes could protest, Irene Adler leaned forward and pressed her lips against his. Her lips were so soft, so pliant. Holmes, frozen in shock, slowly felt himself melting. But then, too soon, she pulled away. "Now," she murmured, "isn't that better?"

"I um ..."

"Yes?"

"I ... what I mean is ..."

"Hmmm?"

"I ... it's too soon to make a ... I mean ..."

"Well," she said, rising and stepping away, "I suppose you had better be getting back to Baker Street. Before Dr. Watson sends half the police force out looking for you."

Holmes stared up at her, his mind whirling in directions it had never gone before. Amazing.

She retrieved his coat where she had folded it on the back of a chair. His hat was there as well. And his shoes, on the floor. She held the coat out to him, and Holmes found himself moving off the bed. His headache was much improved. But not because of the kiss. When he took the coat from her, their eyes met, and her hand brushed his.

"Will you be following me tomorrow too?" she asked.

He nodded. "Uh." He cleared his throat. "Um, yes."

Sweetly, she answered, "I shall be looking forward to it."

Later, when he got home, he discovered that his money clip was missing.

* * *

><p>"Are you quite sure I'm not suffering a concussion?" Holmes asked for at least the tenth time since coming home that evening.<p>

Watson smiled patiently behind his newspaper. "No, Holmes, you do not have a concussion." He squashed the paper down to look at his friend. Holmes reclined on the couch, a cold compress squeezed between the back of his head and the arm of the couch upon which his head rested. Hands folded across his stomach, he stared up at the ceiling. Watson asked, "Why are you so concerned about a concussion?"

One hand was lifted, vaguely waved. "My thoughts seem jumbled. I'm ... I'm not thinking clearly." The hand dropped limply back down again. "Earlier this evening, after awaking from the blow, I found myself at a startling loss for words."

The doctor frowned. "You never did tell me how you got that bump."

"An altercation in an alley. The villain got the best of me."

"Villain?" Watson queried, surprised. "Just one man?"

"In fact," Holmes corrected, "there were three men."

"I've seen you overcome three street roughs before. Even more than three."

"There ... was a fourth."

"Four street thugs?"

"No, just three."

Watson's lips tightened in annoyance. "Will you make up your mind, Holmes? Was it three men or four?"

"Watson, you are _not_ helping!" Holmes stood abruptly, letting the compress fall to the floor forgotten. "I shall retire now," he added archly, "and should I die of a concussion before morning, I shall blame you."

"You won't blame anyone if you're dead." They glared at one another for a moment before Watson asked, "Holmes. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Holmes lips twisted. "If I am, it's because I'm concussed and cannot remember it."

"No. No, it's not that." Watson studied his friend with a clinician's eye. Noted the soiled clothing clearly speaking of a street fight, black hair wildly disarrayed, a small cut on his lower lip. And something in his eyes, some strange light beyond his usual mania. That, and what looked like a smear of a woman's lip rouge upon his collar. "If I didn't know better," Watson said thoughtfully, "I'd say you were in love."

"Love!" Holmes exclaimed hotly. "I have no use for a woman's follies, you know that, Watson. I have forsworn the fairer sex and all their simpering, conniving ways in favor of intellectual pursuits and the chase and capture of worthy criminals."

Watson lifted his paper back up again. "So what's her name?"

Holmes stalked into his bedroom and slammed the door shut.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Woman**

**Chapter Three**

He followed her for several more days, but she did nothing more notorious than go shopping for new dresses. She caught his gaze once or twice, and maddeningly, she winked at him. Holmes decided he would go disguised the next day.

He chose his costume with care. He dressed himself in a military uniform of days gone by complete with an old gold military watch, applied ash to his eyebrows, adhered a huge, flowing gray mustache beneath his nose and tucked his dark hair up underneath a gray wig. Glass spectacles with clear lenses lacking prescription he placed upon his nose. A cane completed his guise as an old soldier. He caught a cab to the door of the Grand Hotel, then limped inside, leaning heavily upon the cane.

It was nearing noon. He hobbled to the dining hall and chose a table where he could easily see the wide staircase. Irene Adler seldom started her day before noon. When she left, he would see her from this vantage point.

Holmes ordered a meal an old man might order and ate diffidently, as an old man would. He querulously complained to the waiter that his tea was too hot, and then later that it was too cold. While he was complaining that his chicken was too dry, he saw her come down the stairs.

She was dressed all in gold satin. Had he been a romantic man, he would have said she outshone the sun itself. Thankfully, however, he wasn't the least bit romantically inclined.

The Woman was searching her purse for something. Without glancing up, she entered the dining hall. Holmes tensed. He busied himself with his lunch. Still distracted by whatever she was looking for, she sauntered slowly toward his table, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

"Oh Daddy," she said mournfully, looking up into Holmes' eyes, "I seem to have misplaced my wallet. Can you pay for our lunch after all?"

"Um." He cleared his throat, making the sound full of bluff and bluster in keeping with his disguise.

Irene smiled sweetly. "Oh, I knew you would understand." She then proceeded to order the most expensive item on the menu.

Looking down at his plate, in his own voice Holmes murmured, "That's playing a bit dirty, don't you think?"

"Why?" she asked, all sweetness and concern. "I thought fathers always loved spoiling their little girls?"

He whispered, "You, Miss Adler, are no little girl."

"That, Mr. Holmes, is the most perceptive thing you've said since we met."

He glared at her through his spectacles, not caring if anyone else noticed. "If you remember, I was not exactly at my best during our last meeting. Thanks to you."

"Oh," she said demurely, turning her attention to her meal as it arrived, "that little bump? Thank you," she added to the waiter.

"That little bump nearly cost me my life. I was concussed." He knew it was true no matter what Watson had said. Nothing else could explain his weakened mental state after awaking in Irene's room, or the way his heart raced upon finding her sitting on the bed beside him. And when Irene ...

_Good God_, he suddenly reflected. When had she gone from Adler to simply Irene in his thoughts?

They ate in silence after that, but did order more tea, and finally a light dessert. Holmes grudgingly paid the waiter for both meals, then stood with every intention of leaving The Woman to her own devices for the remainder of the day.

The world shifted around him. He sat back down.

"What did you give me?" he asked. Anger stirred, but already he lacked the strength to give vent to it.

"Oh, just a little something. It will put you to sleep for a little while. No lasting ill effects whatsoever. I have some business to finish up this afternoon and I didn't want you getting another concussion." She smiled sweetly at him. Holmes looked at their plates, which were now blurred alarmingly, and Irene said, "On your pie, Mr. Holmes. Didn't you notice that yours had a little more powdered sugar than mine did?"

"I assumed that was simply the cook's respect for an old soldier. Ohhh ..." he moaned as his peripheral vision faded.

"I sent a message to the chef that my dear old Daddy was loathe to take his medications. He was more than happy to help me with the situation."

She reached out, placed a gentle hand on the side of his face and turned his head to look at her. In seeming sincerity, she said, "Don't worry. I promise I won't let anything happen to you while you're out." Then she stood abruptly, hands going to her own cheeks in seeming distress, and cried out, "Oh help! Someone help! My father!"

Then he felt hands on his shoulders, other hands helping to lift him, voices calling out, but he was no longer able to move nor even speak. It was the last thing he remembered for some time thereafter.

* * *

><p>True to Irene's word, when he awakened it was as if from a deep, dreamless sleep. A slight grogginess lingered, but that was the only aftereffect he noted from the drug she had given him. He also noticed that he was tucked snugly under the covers of her bed, naked save for wig and mustache, and that his soldier's uniform was missing.<p>

So was Irene.

Holmes tossed back the covers and stood, surveying the room. After finding not a sign of men's clothing anywhere, he sighed heavily, shook his head, and went to The Woman's own wardrobe. He found a robe, a lovely beige silk with pink cherry blossoms, and with ruffles around the sleeve cuffs, around the neck and down the front opening. It looked loose enough to fit. He pulled it on and tied the sash.

To pass the time, he began searching her room. He found nothing incriminating. Not a bloody thing. Eventually he heard a key being inserted in the door. He quickly sat down on the nearest chair and assumed an air of dignified disinterest.

Irene entered with a glad greeting of, "Oh Daddy, you're awake!" She then turned back to the hallway and accepted his folded uniform from a maid. The girl caught a brief glimpse of Holmes, her eyes widened, and she hurried away. Smiling, Irene closed the door and locked it. "I'm afraid you got some of our leftover lunch on your uniform when you passed out. I took the liberty of having it cleaned and pressed for you. Although," she stopped and studied his appearance, her eyes twinkling, "that color does look lovely on you. The pink flowers bring out the color in your cheeks."

Holmes felt the heat in his face even as she said it. He looked quickly away. "So," he said, "I trust your business transaction went smoothly?"

She placed his folded uniform on the corner of her bed and removed her hat. She replied simply, "I am now a wealthier woman by some five thousand pounds."

"So what did you steal?"

"Nothing. A lady of some repute here in London asked me to deliver a package for her. Nothing more."

"Five thousand pounds is a rather exorbitant payment for a courier."

"I," Irene said, moving closer with a flirtatious swaying of her bustle, "am no ordinary courier. There were dangers. I overcame them. There were villains. I outsmarted them." She grinned mischievously. "I'm rather good at outsmarting men."

"Really?" Holmes murmured archly. "I hadn't noticed."

Irene smiled knowingly and moved behind her dressing screen.

Without preamble, Holmes said, "Mrs. Hollingsworth-Norton has always been a most generous patron to the arts, and has donated countless pounds to the Widows and Orphans of War charities. How unfortunate that a son of her youthful indiscretion should turn up now, in the autumn of her years, and threaten to ruin her otherwise sterling reputation. I trust the man was satisfied with the amount she offered for his silence?"

Irene looked through the wooden scrollwork at the top of the dressing screen, her eyes wide with shock. She shook her head, chestnut curls dancing, and went back to changing out of her dress. "I almost forgot. You _are_ Sherlock Holmes. How did you know?"

"You have two small white petals caught in your hair. That combined with the stain upon your right shoe tells me that you walked through an area resplendent with bird cherry trees, _prunus padus_, a tree well-known for their fragrant white star shaped flowers and small black cherries, which of course fall to the ground when overripe."

"And I stepped on one."

"More than one, actually. Mrs. Hollingsworth-Norton is known to favor fragrant flowering gardens. Her townhouse here in London is famous for its decorative flora."

"And the son?"

"Elementary. You yourself implied that it was a man to whom you delivered the package." Holmes steepled his fingers. "If memory serves - and it always does - sometime before her coming out party some thirty-odd years ago, Mrs. Katherine Hollingsworth-Norton, then Miss Katherine Simpson of Kent, was suddenly whisked away on an unexpected trip to America on the premise of a dying grandfather, and her coming of age party cancelled. She was gone for approximately one year. I assume the gentleman you spoke with today had an American accent similar to your own?"

"Yes," Irene sighed.

A small, acerbic grin showed Holmes' satisfaction at finally getting one over on Irene Adler.

She came around the screen, now wearing a robe of heavy brocade in a lovely shade of turquoise with pale lavender trim. She had released her hair, and it hung down past her shoulders in messy waves. She was barefoot.

Holmes swallowed hard.

She walked toward him slowly, and there went his traitorous heart again, pounding as if from a race. When she sat down on his lap, looping her arms around his neck, he was lost.

"I've never kissed a man with a handlebar mustache before."

"I find that," he cleared his throat, then continued hoarsely, "I find that hard to believe, Miss Adler. I'm sure you have kissed, um ..." And his famous intellect dwindled to that of a two year old.

"I _meant_ I have never kissed a man with a handlebar mustache like this one. A _fake_ mustache. Does it stink of the horse that donated it, I wonder? Will the adhesive make for an itchy kiss? Will it come off altogether at more than casual contact? All questions I would love to have answered."

"Well," he began, "as for the horse ..."

Her mouth on his silenced him. Her lips were soft yet insistent. When her clever tongue persuaded his mouth to open, he willingly complied. Even as her arms tightened around his neck, Holmes found his own arms encircling her waist. When Irene pulled back, it felt as though a piece of him went with her.

"I think," she said, "that I prefer kissing you without that monstrosity on your face." She pulled it off and tossed it aside. "And by the way, it does stink of horse." She pushed the wig off as well. "Now," she smiled, "that's better." And she started kissing him again.

It was a lovely way to pass the remainder of the afternoon. But when Holmes could stand it no longer and rose from the chair with Irene in his arms, and carried her to the bed, she wriggled enough to put her feet firmly on the floor instead.

She smiled up into his eyes. "It's getting late. Dr. Watson will be worried about you."

"Miss Adler ..."

"Irene," she corrected him. "After all this lovely kissing, I think we should at least be on a first name basis. Don't you agree, Sherlock?"

Holmes fought for control, and succeeded after a fashion.

Irene glanced down, and her smile widened. "I think a robe that opens in the front isn't what you should be wearing just now."

Holmes tugged the damnable garment into a more modest arrangement.

"Your uniform is on the bed." She glanced past him. "And your mustache is on the floor there, and your wig over there." She returned her gaze to his eyes. And her own eyes, Holmes noted with some degree of satisfaction, were at least as impassioned as his own. Her face was flushed and she was breathing at least as heavily as he was himself. She said, "Tomorrow, noon? In the dining hall?"

"Of course not," he replied with dignity. "I have other matters to attend."

"Good. I'll see you then." Rising on her toes, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the lips. And then the maddening female walked away and disappeared inside the bathroom.

When Holmes got home later that day, his gold military watch was gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Woman**

**Chapter Four**

"Are you sure you're alright?" Watson asked. In truth, he was getting worried about Holmes. The younger man hadn't eaten much in the past few days. In the past couple of weeks his behavior had become even more erratic than usual, and so far as the doctor could tell, it was without benefit of Holmes' seven percent solution of cocaine. Or at least, not in his usual quantities. Watson considered giving Holmes a sedative - he kept a supply on-hand for just such eventualities - but without discerning the cause of Holmes' manic behavior, it seemed unwise.

"You worry too much, Watson," Holmes said. He was playing Beethoven's Adagio from Opus 31, No. 1, and the slow strains of the music filled their home on Baker Street. The beauty of the song was tarnished for Watson, however, by his concern.

He tried again. "Look Holmes, I'm having dinner tonight at the Savoy. I insist you join me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Not hungry."

"You're starving yourself!"

"I assure you I ate a hearty lunch today."

"Oh?" Watson put his hands on his hips. "And what precisely did you eat?"

"I don't know. Chicken, too dry. Some vegetables. A lump of something starchy. A pie that effected me in most ... unexpected ways."

Watson drew a heavy breath and commanded, "Clean yourself up, Holmes. If you don't come with me to the Savoy, then I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to cook us a nice meal. _And_ I will ask her to join us. I _will_ see you putting food in your body. One way or the other."

"_Nanny_," Holmes grumbled under his breath. With a discordant screech of bow against strings, Holmes flung the violin away from him. "Can a man have no privacy with you around?" he exclaimed.

"No." Stated flatly and without any room for argument.

The two men stared at one another for a long, cold moment.

"Very well then," Holmes grudgingly acquiesced, looking away.

"Fine then."

"Fine."

"Clean yourself up. Put on a jacket. Remember we will be around civilized people."

"You forget where and how I was raised. To me, your civilized people are crude and barbarous."

"Here we go again," Watson sighed. "You know, you really can be a snob sometimes."

Tightly, Holmes replied, "I am simply trying to explain why the company of what you call 'civilized people' can be so onerous and tiresome to me."

"Says the man who fights in the pits and enjoys the company of London's most disreputable. Fine. Clean up and put on a coat anyway. _Pretend_, for my sake, that the barbarians at the Savoy are worthy of at least your polite behavior."

Grumbling, Holmes complied.

They hailed a cab, then traveled in mostly silence despite Watson's best attempts at conversation, with Holmes staring disconsolately out the window. At the Savoy, they followed the waiter to their table.

Holmes ordered a chateau briand, and a bottle of marsala wine for the table. After Watson had ordered for himself, he turned once again to his friend.

"So. Holmes. You um, you haven't mentioned anything to me lately about what case you're working on."

"No cases. I'm afraid you'll have to pay the entirety of the rent this month. I trust you haven't squandered the sum of your income on gambling debts."

"Well, no."

"Good. Because I haven't the slightest inclination just now to earn our rent in the fighting pit." He fidgeted with his napkin. "In fact, you might as well accustom yourself to being the sole bread-winner, old boy. I doubt that dear Mary would go into the pits for you if you gamble all your money away."

"Holmes!" Then the image of slender, delicate Mary Morstan beating some brute into unconsciousness in the fighting pits made him chuckle despite himself. Gladly, he found it infectious. At his own soft laughter, he saw Holmes hiding a small grin.

The wine arrived, the waiter poured. Holmes emptied his long-stemmed glass and refilled it himself.

"Um," Watson began. He had no idea how to proceed. It was a delicate subject even with someone more approachable than Sherlock Holmes. "You know, Holmes ... being responsible for Mary's health and happiness is a thing I actually look forward to. It's what love is all about."

Surprisingly, Holmes turned a sharp gaze upon the doctor. "I doubt that's _all_ that love is about. Surely there's more to it than just the requisite duties involved?"

"Well, yes. Of course." Watson was pleased that Holmes had responded favorably to his opening statement. He still wasn't sure how to proceed though. "There's the closeness, the intimacy."

"Ah yes," Holmes smirked, "the intimacy."

"I didn't mean it _that_ way, Holmes. I meant the sharing of one's life with another. The absolute contentment that comes when someone is closer to you than your own shadow."

Holmes found fascination in the play of light in his wine as he gently sloshed it around inside the glass. "And what do you feel? When you look at her, I mean." Quietly spoken, a hint of what might have been sadness in his voice as he said it.

Watson closed his eyes, trying to find words to describe the indescribable. "Hope," he said at last. "Joy. The promise of a life no longer spent alone."

Holmes' voice dropped to the barest whisper. "And if you see none of that in her eyes, Watson? What then? If your ... heart races, if your bones melt every time she looks at you. If you would happily sacrifice your life a thousand times over to protect her ... but there is no hope, no joy beyond the moment. And you know that despite everything you feel for her, you will still live your life alone. What then?"

His words broke Watson's heart. "Who is she?" he whispered softly.

An indrawn breath carried on a small, sad smile. "No one, Watson. She's a ghost. A will 'o the wisp. A muse that will inspire me only to abandon me in the end. Ah," he said, "here's our food now."

When they returned home that night, for the first time that Watson had witnessed in many days, Holmes indulged in an injection of his seven percent solution. For the first time in a long time, Dr. Watson did not berate him for it.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Woman**

**Chapter Five**

Holmes did have lunch with Irene the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that as well. They stayed in the dining hall and talked and laughed until late in those afternoons. Afterwards, Irene would retire to her room, claiming weariness. Apparently she had begun rehearsals in the evenings for a brief period of performance at London's Royalty Theater at 73 Dean Street. Holmes would go home every evening, but Irene Adler was never far from his thoughts.

On the fourth day, Irene sent a message to 221B Baker Street that she was ill and would see him the next day instead. Holmes went to the Grand anyway, claimed a chair in the lobby, hid his face behind a newspaper, and waited. Eventually he saw a young man come skipping down the stairs. He was a slender lad that Holmes had not noticed in the Grand Hotel before. He was dressed in brown slacks and jacket, and wore a bowler hat at a jaunty angle.

"Ah," Holmes sighed, and rose to follow Irene at a discrete distance.

Today she did not hail a cab, but walked and sometimes trotted as though in some rush to reach a nearby destination. Holmes remained at a distance where she was not likely to recognize him should she turn around. After some hour of hurrying through the London streets and taking some unexpected turns as if to throw off pursuit, she approached an old house, seemingly abandoned judging by the sorry state of the garden, in a middleclass section of the city. She knocked upon the door, and when it opened, she entered it.

Holmes approached more stealthily. He found an opened window and crouched beneath it to listen.

"I came alone," came a man's voice, "as you requested." His accent was mild, yet unmistakably Italian.

"As did I." Holmes heard the sound of footsteps, light and quick. Irene was pacing. "I wish you would simply take me at my word. It is over, Alessandro."

"Over for you. Not for me. I love you, Irene."

Outside the window, Holmes felt an unfamiliar rush of what could only be termed jealousy. It seemed one of Irene's _affaires de cœur_ had come back to haunt her.

"I _told_ you," Irene replied with exaggerated patience, "we are not right together. You and I were never meant to be a couple."

"I love you. I will marry you."

"No," Irene said forcefully. "You will not."

"I gave you money. I gave you jewelry." Alessandro's voice grew agitated.

"Bribes, to keep me compliant. Obviously they did not work." A pause, and she added more kindly, "I did return the wedding ring you stole from your grandmother. And her diamond brooch."

"I meant them as a seal to our union."

"But they were not yours to give. That's why I returned them to your grandmother personally."

"Yes," Alessandro almost shouted, "and now she has written me out of her will!"

"Ah," Irene said as understanding dawned, "and so that is the _real_ reason you want me back. Not because you love me. To ... undo your thievery? To prove to your grandmother that I truly was meant to be your wife and wear those trinkets? No, I think not. I won't play your game. Good-bye, Alessandro."

"No!" Alessandro shouted. Then Holmes heard the sound of more footfalls than two people could produce. One man, limping slightly. The other heavier, his steps more jarring on the old wooden floor.

"Let me go!" Irene demanded.

Holmes jumped through the window just as Irene slipped a thick leather baton from out of her sleeve and smashed Alessandro across the face with it. The other two men moved to contain her. Holmes leapt toward the heavier man.

As far as battles went, it was a quick one. Holmes had attacked the heavier man, but then found himself engaged with the lame man as well. Neither was a trained fighter. The lame man went down first. The heavier man had sheer size and muscle in his favor, but he lasted scarcely longer than his compatriot. By the time both were felled and incapacitated on the floor, Irene had beaten Alessandro down into a corner. His eye was already purpling and a trickle of blood leaked from his split lip. She had removed the leather scabbard from her baton to reveal a wicked blade which she held pressed against Alessandro's throat.

"Don't _ever_ let me see you again," she told him intensely. "Should you come at me again, I will beat you again. Should you abduct me and force me to wed you, I will kill you, Alessandro. I promise that if you pursue this senseless marriage, I will make your life miserable. I will disgrace you in every conceivable way before I end your life. Your grandmother will spit on your grave."

"Vaffanculo, una dispettosa!" Alessandro spat at her.

Holmes moved forward and kicked Alessandro in the side of the head, knocking him into insensibility. "Un pompinaio," he muttered. He shrugged mildly, explaining to Irene, "He deserved it for what he said to you."

Irene looked up at him. "I didn't know you spoke Italian."

"Only the curse words, darling. Shall we?" The heavier man was already trying to sit up.

They walked calmly together out the door. Behind them, someone began expelling an angry Italian diatribe. Neither of them looked back.

"That doesn't sound pleasant," Irene remarked.

Holmes said, "I think it's the larger man. He's calling your Alessandro all manner of impolite names. He says when they get back to Verona, he's going to the grandmother in question and telling her everything. In the hope of receiving monetary remuneration, of course."

"I thought you only understood the curse words?"

"Surprising, isn't it? All the things you don't know about me." They started down the path toward the gate. "Do you think he'll come after you again?"

"What? And chance that I _will_ embarrass him in front of his friends and family? Not a chance. Alessandro is full of male bravado, but at heart he's a coward. Oh!" She stopped abruptly.

"What's wrong?"

"He _lied_ to me!"

"About what?"

"He promised he would come alone."

Holmes sighed. "You promised you would come alone too."

"I never asked you to come," Irene insisted.

"No," Holmes said, taking her arm to get her moving again, "but you knew I would." Then there were three angry Italian voices all mingling together. "Oh," he remarked, "that's not good."

"Why? What is it?"

"Your Alessandro is urging immediate revenge." They were almost to the gate.

"Of course, while he has his friends to do it for him. Um, can we run yet?"

"Not yet, darling. Not while they can still see us." They were through the gate and on the street.

"Right," Irene agreed. "We want to take the stronger position. We can't show weakness or fear."

"Precisely."

"When _can_ we run?"

"Soon, soon." The door of the old house squeaked open just as they turned the first corner.

"Now?" Irene asked.

"Now," Holmes agreed, and together they raced several blocks, stopped to hail a cab, and enjoyed a more peaceful ride back to the Grand.


	6. Chapter 6

_**NOTE:** In the first movie, I was intrigued by the way Holmes clearly wanted Irene to be the first to speak of love. It happened in two separate scenes (you know the ones I mean). He would look at her with such longing, and she obviously knew what he wanted, but she would always look away without saying what he so desperately wanted to hear. Then Holmes' eyes would drop and they would continue with whatever they were doing. In this chapter, I speculate on why Holmes cannot be the first to say "I love you." P.S. Just one more chapter after this one!_

**The Woman**

**Chapter Six**

Safely inside her room, Irene laughed and hugged him close. "Honestly," she smiled, "I didn't expect you to follow me today. Not after my note."

"Honestly?" Holmes repeated with gentle irony, referring to the lie her note contained.

"Well, you know what I mean." She started to turn away from him. Holmes held onto her hand. When she turned back to face him, her eyes questioning, he brushed the back of his other hand lightly over her cheek.

"Irene ..."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

Holmes swallowed and glanced away. He couldn't find the words to say what he wanted. Imagine that, he thought, the great Sherlock Holmes once again at a loss for words. And this time without even a concussion to blame. This woman was poisonous to his intellect. He prevaricated with, "Well, I ... I think you look ridiculous in men's clothing."

"Oh?" She smiled down at herself. "I rather like it. It's easier to fight in slacks than it is in long skirts and a bustle."

"True enough," he agreed. At her startled look, he added, "Don't ask."

"I won't," she assured him. Then she sighed heavily. "Well, if you find these clothes so distasteful ..."

"I do."

"... then I'll simply have to shed them."

"I wish you would," he replied firmly.

She tossed her bowler hat and jacket aside. She shrugged her suspenders down. "Oh," she murmured, feigning distress. "Your shirt is torn."

Holmes found the torn sleeve. "It's that Italian tailor I saw today. The man had no finesse."

Irene smiled. "Shall I mend it for you?"

"You? An adherent of the womanly arts?"

"Well, I do have _some_ womanly skills. But you'll have to take the shirt off."

"Of course."

Irene moved close. "Here, let me help." Green eyes met brown and held there. Deliciously unhurried, she began unbuttoning his shirt.

Holmes swallowed the lump in his throat. "You're certainly taking your time with that."

A tiny shrug. "Some men prefer it slow." The last button was unbuttoned. Irene pushed the shirt off his shoulders. It fell to the floor, forgotten.

Holmes murmured, "You've done me a favor. Please allow me to return it." And he began unbuttoning her shirt, slowly, deliberately.

A little breathless, Irene said, "You're quite the slow-poke too."

Holmes' lips twitched in amusement. "I'm a what?"

"A slowpoke. It's ... a term we use in America. It means you're slow."

"Most women prefer it slow. Or so I've been told."

"Touché," she whispered as her shirt followed his to the floor.

Both half-clad, they took a moment to survey one another with appreciative eyes.

"A woman wearing men's breeches." Holmes examined her appearance. He made a _tsking_ sound with his tongue. "Imagine the disgrace should anyone see you like this." His fingers unbuckled her belt, then found the slacks' fastening.

"I might never live down the embarrassment."

"I'm actually doing you a favor," he assured her.

"Oh, yes. You are. I need someone to take me firmly in hand."

"As do I," he whispered, nuzzling her ear.

Irene closed her eyes. When she opened his belt, her hands were trembling. Together they kicked the remainder of their clothing away.

Sherlock Holmes had been with other women, yet he had never before felt like he did now, here, with Irene Adler. Breathless, pulse racing, heart - he didn't even know how to describe the emotions pounding inside his heart. He felt he had to say it. "Irene, I need to tell you how I -."

"No," she implored, placing her hand across his mouth to silence him. "Please don't say it, Sherlock. Please don't ruin this for us."

"Ruin it?" he whispered against her fingers. And in that moment, with a sinking heart, the part of his mind still capable of rational thought realized that he could never tell her how he felt. This was Irene's show, this romantic arena, pure and simple. If proclamations of love were to be made, she must be the one to speak of love first.

He could not. Never him. To do so would simply relegate him to the level of all those other men that she had used and abandoned. Fools, all of them, to think they could ever capture her elusive soul.

_She's a ghost. A will 'o the wisp. A muse that will inspire me only to abandon me in the end._ He already knew it. Had accepted the sad state of this affair. Had accepted it as much as he could. It was either that, or lose even these brief stolen moments with her.

So instead he removed her hand from his lips, kissed her palm, and with long years of experience in lying convincingly to police and criminals alike, he told her, "I was simply going to suggest that we lie down for awhile. That fight claimed so much of my energy. I feel so ... weary."

"_Too_ weary?" she asked with an upraised brow.

"Let's find out, shall we?" Smiling crookedly, Holmes led Irene to the bed.

* * *

><p>"You have scars," she murmured, tracing the path of a long-ago cut along his ribcage. She lay snuggled against him, her head resting upon his shoulder, her chestnut curls tangled with his unruly black hair while the sweat of their exertions dried upon their bodies.<p>

"Mostly from the fighting pits," Holmes answered softly. "I go for the stimulation, as well as for the practice." He smiled, almost. "Although you'd be surprised how often Watson's gambling has cost us the rent. Then I go to the pits out of necessity."

"I wouldn't have taken Dr. Watson for a gambler. I guess you never can tell. And you?" she asked. "Do you have any bad habits?" Her hand moved to one of his inner arms and the innumerable puncture marks there. He knew his other arm was equally scarred. No doubt Irene had noticed those marks was well. Very little escaped her attention.

"A ... few." No need going into it. The pinprick scars themselves said everything that was necessary.

Irene shifted so that she too, stared up at the ceiling. His skin felt cold where she no longer touched it. "What does it feel like?"

"What?"

"The cocaine. What it ... does for you."

He sighed. "I find it transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind. Although Watson complains of the black moods which invariably follow." His lips twitched upward. "Our poor landlady usually catches the brunt of those."

Irene was so quiet for so long, Holmes thought she might be falling asleep. Then she said, "It's like that for me too, only my habit is very different from yours."

"Oh?" He knew better than to push her. He waited, and listened.

"For me it's the conquest. Knowing that another man has fallen in love with me. That he loves me to the point of beggaring himself, and losing everything he owns, even his friends and family. All for the love of _me_. I suppose the aftermath - leaving him, untangling myself from the affair - is the equivalent of your black moods." Irene shrugged one bare shoulder. "I cannot leave it behind though. It's who I am."

"But people can change," Holmes offered quietly. "I could stop taking the cocaine if I chose. You could ... you could settle down. Marry. Marry forever, I mean. If the right man came along."

She glanced at him briefly, and Holmes saw the glint of tears in her eyes. "And busy myself cooking and cleaning and having babies? All while living on my husband's meager income?" She shook her head against his shoulder, and one tear rolled down the side of her face. She quickly brushed it away. "And forever do without my silks and diamonds and sapphires? And the applause of an appreciative audience? No, Sherlock. I could never settle down, no more than you ever could."

"I could," he murmured. "If I chose to."

"Are you lying to me, or to yourself?" She paused, then went on, "Let's say you did take a wife. Would you subject your wife and children to the danger of criminals seeking revenge against you? Would you chance your family being drawn against their will and yours into your intrigues. No," she said, "you would never do that to someone you loved."

Holmes said nothing. What was there he could say? Then a question did occur. "So," he asked softly, "am I one of your ... trophies?" He toyed with one of her curls, letting it draw his attention away from her eyes. He didn't want her to see what lurked in his own.

"Of course!" she said nonchalantly, and he felt a little something break in his heart. "The renowned Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in England if not the world. I would be lying if I said you weren't a shining star in my crown of conquests."

"But what is it then that you wish of me, Irene? I have no jewels to give you. I have no wealth for you to steal."

"No," she said, "but we have this. This ... intimacy is what you give me, Sherlock. With no other man can I just be myself. Just ... Irene Adler from New Jersey. Between us there need be no lies, no games or intrigues. You're too smart to ever fall for any of my lies or promises anyway, so why bother? With you I can relax and just enjoy the beauty of being a woman with a man. You know everything about me, and yet you accept me as I am, without artifice. There is such ... simple contentment in that, Sherlock. With you, I can _relax_." Irene turned back and snuggled tightly against him once more, looping one slender leg through his. "That's why we're so right together, Sherlock. So perfect. We both have our lives, and neither of us will ever change."

He pulled her closer, and kissed the tip of her nose. "So we are equals in this," he said, more lightly than he felt. "Partners in this crime of passion, as it were."

"Yes." Her smile was gentle. "We meet as equals in every way. Intellectually. Physically." She placed her hand on the side of his face and bade him meet her eyes. Their kiss was long and sweet. "We neither of us want entanglements. You and I, we understand one another. We can meet like this, and share ourselves and be together, and then go our separate ways without guilt or remorse. Can't we?"

He forced a smile. "Yes. Yes, of course, darling."

She kissed him again, and slid her hand down the flat plane of his belly, then further still. And for awhile, Holmes forgot all about lost loves and the promise of living his life alone. For he had this, the joy of the moment.

It would have to be enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Woman**

**Chapter 7**

And thus their affair continued for another two weeks. Holmes began taking cases again, and Irene continued her rehearsals. She gave Holmes two tickets to her premiere performance in the hope that he might be free that night.

Of course he was.

"The Royalty Theater?" Watson repeated. "My goodness, I haven't been there in years. And the date is perfect - Mary will be visiting her brother in the country that weekend."

"So you're free then?"

"Yes. Yes, I think a night out at the theater would be splendid."

When the date came, Watson was surprised to see Holmes taking more care with his preparations than was his usual wont. It made them a little late arriving, and when the usher escorted them to their seats, Watson was surprised that they had one of the best boxes in the theater. Their balcony directly overlooked one front corner of the stage.

"How ever did you afford these seats, Holmes?" he asked.

"I didn't. They were a gift."

"A gift? From one of your clients?"

"Not ... exactly. Oh, look, Watson. The curtain is rising." Holmes offered him a pleased grin. "We're just in time."

The performances were definitive. Several of the finest singers, ballet dancers, and musicians in Europe had been gathered together. Each individual or group was allowed enough time to showcase their talents to perfection.

When Irene Adler was introduced, Watson's eyes widened. Leaning close to Holmes, he said over the applause, "Irene Adler? Isn't she the woman who blackmailed the King of Bohemia?"

"_Hereditary_ King of Bohemia. And no, she never did blackmail him."

Watson smirked. "She outsmarted _you_ though."

"Best not dwell on the past, Watson. Now, _shhh_. Listen."

Watson remembered from their past investigation that Irene Adler was a singer and performer of some renown, as well as a gold-digger. Still, he was pleasantly surprised by the quality of her lovely soprano voice. A glance at Holmes showed that his friend was equally impressed, for he had closed his eyes to better experience the lilting notes of Adler's songs.

She sang five sublimely beautiful pieces. At the end, as she was accepting the crowd's appreciative applause, her arms full of roses, she turned her shining face up in their direction and threw a kiss to ...

... _Holmes?_

Watson had never seen such a spellbound look of pure adoration on his friend's face before. And in that instant, he _knew_.

Neither man said anything during the remainder of the show, nor as they later left the theater and sought a carriage to take them home. As the driver urged the horses into motion, Watson hesitantly offered, "Your muse has a lovely singing voice."

Holmes stared out the window at the dark London streets.

Some time passed before Watson, speaking carefully and kindly, dared to say, "She'll break your heart, old man."

Holmes bestirred himself enough to turn a minute smile on his friend. "She already has, Watson. She already has."

"Then ... why continue to see her, Holmes? Why do you let her ... toy with you this way?"

"Because I've never met a woman so quick and intelligent before. Irene is easily my intellectual equal."

"Oh, I doubt that," Watson replied. "Just because she outsmarted you once is nothing to base a relationship on."

"It's not that, Watson. In all ways, she's a far sight beyond all other women. I can talk to her about anything, and it is a conversation between intellectual peers. Such conversations are impossible with other women. Other _people_. Except for yourself, of course," he quickly amended. "Nor does she play at annoying flirtations and feminine intrigues. Her honesty is ... refreshing."

"Her _honesty?"_

Holmes chose to ignore that comment. He sighed heavily, and met Watson's gaze. "You know my curse, Doctor." Not a question, rather a statement of fact.

So as a doctor, Watson offered his professional diagnosis. "You have some kind of brain abnormality that makes your mind and senses hyper-aware. Your mind is never still for an instant. You see everything in the most minuscule detail. You hear every smallest sound. You smell everything. Your mind deduces and makes unending calculations and assessments. The barrage of constant information bombarding your mind drives you to near madness. Whether you admit it or not, your ... curse ... while elevating you to the most successful detective in the history of law enforcement, is also the primary cause for your dependence upon alcohol and drugs. Is that a fair summary?"

"Unequivocally precise, as always. Thank you, Doctor."

"But that doesn't explain your fascination for this femme fatale, Holmes."

Holmes looked deep into his friend's eyes and said very simply, "When I am with her, Watson, I don't think about anything else. My mind is quiet. It is still. For those brief moments, I am a man at peace." He turned his attention back to the window and the night beyond it. "Irene Adler is at least as addicting as cocaine."

* * *

><p>The show was only scheduled to last one month. Those four weeks passed far too quickly for Sherlock Holmes. Still, it gave him plenty of time to grow accustomed to the deal he had made with Irene and to find some inner peace with it. He was actually quite lucky, he reminded himself time after time, for he had been gifted with more of her than she had ever given any other man.<p>

The morning after the show's final performance, Irene asked Holmes to spend the day with her. He knew without asking that it would be their last together. They shared breakfast, then went up to their room and made love. They came down for lunch, and afterwards spent the afternoon walking through the park, sitting and talking, holding hands, sharing stories of their lives. Enjoying one another's company. Irene smiled and laughed, and Holmes laughed with her. It was an altogether splendid day.

That night their love making took on an almost desperate quality. When at last they lay panting and spent in one another's arms, Irene told him the truth. "I'm leaving in the morning."

"I know," Holmes answered softly.

"I was only here for the show," she went on. "The business with Mrs. Hollingsworth-Norton was more of a side job."

"Yes."

"That fiasco with Alessandro was nothing more than pure bad luck."

"Of course."

"With the show ended, it's time for me to move on."

"Naturally. But what of that first gentleman you met? The middle-aged man you met in the pub on Donover Street. You handed him a package. He gave you an envelope."

"You saw that?" She rolled her eyes. "Of course. At the corner table, sitting in the shadows. That was you."

"That was me. It was the day before that most unfortunate incident in the blind alley."

"Actually, I thought the alley incident rather fortuitous. It reintroduced us." She did not, he noticed, offer any explanation for her activities on Donover Street.

"True. But you're still leaving now."

Irene looked at him curiously. "You're taking this awfully well. I expected protests."

"Why ever would I protest? Your coming and going at will is the essence of our arrangement, is it not? One cannot cage a will 'o the wisp."

"A what?"

Holmes rolled over and pinned her body with his own. He stared deeply into her eyes, and smiled. "I _will_ miss you, Irene."

"No more than I will miss you," she smiled back.

"I imagine you already have some unfortunate fellow in mind as your next victim."

"Right now, the only man I can imagine is you."

"Ah, but that's only because I'm lying on top of you."

"Excellent deduction, Mr. Holmes. Might I ask what you're going to do about it?"

"This."

And for the rest of that night, Sherlock Holmes was just a man, and his mind was at peace.

* * *

><p>The train station was as chaotic as ever. Smoke filled the air, whistles shrilled, the din of shouting voices was deafening.<p>

Holmes held Irene's hand as they walked toward the train car she would be riding in. Thankfully, a porter carried her bags. After Holmes had seen the sheer number of them, he had refused that particular chore. "A consulting detective with a broken back is no detective at all," he had stubbornly insisted.

The porter had some difficulty lifting all those heavy bags and trunks into the car and getting them situated properly within. Holmes spent those last few precious moments with Irene in his arms. He drank in the sight of her, he breathed in the scent of her Parisian perfume, he consigned the feel of her silken skin to his memory. Soon those memories would be all he had left of her. At least until she chose to come back to him again.

Surprisingly, there were tears in her eyes.

Holmes brushed them away with his thumb. "_Tsk tsk_. What kind of femme fatale cries when leaving her latest conquest behind?"

"Who says I'm a femme fatale?"

"Dr. Watson."

"Did he warn you away from me?"

"Oh yes. Many times."

"He's a wise man."

"Undoubtedly."

"And yet here you are, regardless."

"But I'm not the one with tears in my eyes." Holmes searched her face, smiling slightly. "Why _are_ you crying, darling?" He tried to keep her from seeing the hopeful expression in his eyes. He did hold his breath. Waiting.

But of course the answer he prayed for never came. She glanced briefly away, and smiled as if at her own foolishness. "I'm sure it's just the smoke in the air. "

"Of course," he agreed, dropping his gaze. How foolish, to have expected anything more from her.

"I'll be in Paris for awhile. And then I was thinking Germany might be fun."

"I hear the schnitzel festival in Heidelberg is sublime."

"And one mustn't forget the biergartens."

"A rare good time, I'm sure."

"Perhaps I'll come back to London in a few months." One bold tear tumbled down her cheek. But Irene Adler would never admit to any deeper emotions such as _love_ or _longing_. And if Sherlock Holmes were the first to say it, it might drive her away from him forever.

Their kiss lingered, as if neither wanted to be the first one to end it. But when the train began chugging into motion, they had no choice.

Holmes lifted her up into her car. She turned and leaned out, watching him. "I'll come back!" she promised.

"I know," Holmes replied. And he knew, beyond any doubt, that she would.

When he got home later that morning and discovered his wallet missing, he shook his head and smiled.

THE END


End file.
